


Golden Boy

by Foxberry



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Busking, Cute Ending, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, Human Statue Lance, Loverboy Lance, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Posing Lance, Singing Keith (Voltron), Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Street Performers, musician keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 17:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12370530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxberry/pseuds/Foxberry
Summary: Song after song, Keith sings and hums and strums countless notes as he waits for the day to pass and the courage to build. There's no use in going over in the middle of the day and being seen returning to the man again for the second day in a row.





	Golden Boy

**Author's Note:**

> A little something I wrote for a project a while back. It was so cute I had to share ^^

Shoes scraping across the dark speckled tile of the piazza, Keith takes his designated place under the shade of an antique bookstore awning. It’s a small stoop along the brickwork tiles that serves as his regular spot. Every day he returns to the same spot at the same time and plays his guitar for the passersby, singing covers of songs that fit his mood or the people he sees.

Despite the regular coin or note thrown into his guitar case, he finds himself more distracted by the watching eyes of a living statue across the piazza. His brilliant gold paint shines beneath the summer sun, glimmering off the toned muscles of his exposed arms and chest, the rest of his body concealed by an over-elaborate, makeshift gold sheet. He appears a wingless angel, posing still for hours as the wind rushes past the gilded styling of his short locks.

Keith tries to ignore the way light reflects off the golden sheen of the man’s face and hair and shoulders by singing and playing louder. If he can distract himself and others, then he doesn’t need to focus on the fact that the man in gold watches him for hours, regardless of the pose he takes.

People seem to respond to the change in his singing, the nervous way he pretends through his song that he doesn’t find the golden man handsome, that he isn’t staring right back to see if the human statue will move. He watches the way the statue performs when a coin is placed in his matching golden vase at his feet. For every penny, he might wink. For every quarter, he might bow. For every dollar, he might extend his hand to hold another’s. All Keith is left with is the thought of what might happen if he places his own coin in that vase.

It takes him a few days before he gathers the courage to even think about standing up at the end of his performance. His nerves shake through him when he gets to his feet with a surge of determination, hours of the golden angel staring at him playing through his head. He has to say something, or else find himself regretting the entire fantasy he has played through his head.

Guitar tucked under his arm, Keith shovels his earnings into his tattered jacket pockets and approaches the angel with a nervous step. The walk feels so long and arduous that when he finally gets there, he gulps at his proximity to the man with the golden face. His voice is lost beneath his drumming heartbeat, keeping a rhythm that even he couldn’t play to.

The golden angel doesn’t move, poised with his hand caressing his face with the tips of his fingers. He appears positively dazzling with his eyes staring up at the sky. Light catches the edge of his irises, sparkling streaks of colour to bloom before Keith’s eyes. For a moment, Keith is as still as the human statue before him.

When a cloud passes above and shrouds them both, Keith clears his throat and shuffles a shoe over the tile below. The scratch of a loose stone beneath the sole calls him back from his daze and he remembers his reason for standing. His fingers dive into his jacket pocket and fishes out a penny. He rubs his thumb across it thoughtfully, checks to see few people are around, and drops the penny in the vase.

The golden angel’s eyes drop from the sky to peer down, apprehensive and searching. His face breaks into a smile like the sun shines from his teeth and it takes all of Keith’s strength to not let the bursting of his heart show in his features. Steeling himself, he allows his lips to form a quaint smile, trying to appear more amused or curious than elated to have this exquisite stranger’s attention.

The human statue leans forward with a growing smirk on his face. Keith can't help but notice even the tips of his eyelashes are gold, shining in the light just like the blue of his eyes. He can feel the anticipation build tension in his muscles, waiting for the action he's imagined for hours, days, and he resists the tempting urge to whine in his throat when the statue bows low without breaking eye contact.

The sweat on Keith's neck tickles with the tingling nerves working through his skin. It's a moment of elation and regret as Keith stands there frozen and mesmerised. He hadn't thought this far. He hadn't considered being blindsided by a face that outshines the sun and standing there with nothing to say.

With nothing else to coming to him, he nods and smiles politely as he can before he rushes off with his things for the nearest place to hide. He ducks into a side alley and presses his back against the wall, huffing and sighing. That's not how he’d wanted that to go.

Pressing his fingers into the brickwork, he resolved to try again, perhaps say something or do something other than stare. He'll need to work up the nerve again, but that shouldn't take long once the embarrassment has died down. Though being able to look into those eyes again, as much as he wants to, is going to take a lot more than courage.

The next day Keith sits in the same place, one foot propped over the other with his guitar on his lap, and sings a love song that comes to the forefront of his mind. It’s a sweet sound, coursing through the crowd and drawing some closer. Every strum of his guitar punctuates the soft beat of his heart as he wonders whether the man in gold can hear his voice.

Singing of toothbrushes and some girl named Delilah seems to fuel the warmth in his face, adding to the flame flickering in his chest. Each note breathes life into the nervous tension building within him. It works remarkably well in drawing the attention of the passersby, coin upon coin falling into his guitar case, as if they were rewarding him for his thinly veiled pining in public.

His gaze keeps darting over toward the golden angel, hoping, perhaps stupidly, that he might find he's drawing the attention he desires. Though he would never admit that everything he is singing, every song he is struggling to play off the top of his head, is for this man who bowed to him once. Thankfully no one who stops to pause and wonder why he's singing in the street can see him looking into the distance.

Song after song, Keith sings and hums and strums countless notes as he waits for the day to pass and the courage to build. There's no use in going over in the middle of the day and being seen returning to the man again for the second day in a row. He'll wait until the end of the day when he can try a quarter and see if he might get more than a bow.

The light of the afternoon casts across the tiles before long, and Keith stares at his shoes, shining dimly, scuffs and marks of the worn leather creating aged smiles. He resolves in that moment to gather up his money, plop his guitar into his case, and pull it up to his side as he stands. His feet are anything but sure, but he is certain that he's walking towards the statue again before he can stop himself.

The eyes of the golden angel are closed when Keith approaches, and he realises upon inspection that even the man's eyelids are decorated in the same luxurious shade. There's a hint of appreciation and awe that passes through Keith's body and he finds himself unable to speak again. He resorts to staring, catching a glimpse of this man's peaceful face and storing it into memory like one might admire a beautiful work of art.

He almost drops his guitar when the luminescent eyelashes blink open, likely from his presence alone. He fumbles with it in his hand, putting it down quickly, pretending he hasn't been staring as long as he has. Hands now free, he runs one through his hair, trying to calm himself down, and the other reaches into his jacket pocket to find a coin -- the next coin.

Keith knows he shouldn't be placing so much hope in what is really a transaction. He drops a coin in the vase and he gets something in return. It's easy and simple and doesn't carry the same complications as asking the question gnawing at the back of his mind. All he can think to do is drop a quarter this time and see what happens.

The coin falls from his hand before he can prepare himself. A clink follows and the sound rings through his ears like the sound has come to a standstill, as if a pulse emanating from the vase connects them in a moment of happenstance. As a matter of fact, it's nothing more than a moment that Keith has ensured will happen.

Eyes fully open, the statue casts his gaze forward, arms rested across his stomach, a picture of bliss and peace and all things calm. Not a flicker of distress or discomfort crosses his face at the interruption of his afternoon meditation and turns his attention to the vase by his feet. His face remains stoic, unchanged, somehow still so blissful that Keith is sure the ache in his heart is audible.

His blue eyes seem to burn against the warmth of the gold on his face. The heat Keith feels from their intensity contrasts with the chill of their colour. So many questions seem to glow within them, questions Keith is too tongue-tied to encourage, let alone answer. He curses his silence and simply stares up with a look of anticipation.

The golden angel leans forward like before. The sheet on his shoulder slips, revealing a patch of gilded skin beneath. The man appears to have been thorough with his work, and he becomes even more thorough with his leaning when his hand reaches out for Keith's. His fingers wiggle, glittering in their movement.

Keith gulps and lifts his hand, letting it hover over the angel's for a moment. He hesitates at the possibility of touching, of feeling this stranger's warmth that he has imagined for hours, even days. His eyes trace the statue's arm upwards, lingering over the curve of his bared shoulder, up the curve of his neck, until he finds himself flustered by the smirk and wink that meets his wandering gaze.

His hand falls to the sound of his gasp and slaps into the man's hand, whose fingers curl around him before he even has the thought to pull away. He's trapped, lost in the man's eyes that won't look away, arm weak to the tug that pulls his hand closer to those glossy golden lips.

Something in him snaps when the golden angel's lips press against his hand, soft against the coarse surface, dry and warm. He can't tell what's snapped or what has changed and simply stares blankly at the shine before him. It glows. The man glows. Even his hair is so beautifully styled and perfect and maybe Keith is way in over his head. The moment feels like it takes forever and Keith isn’t sure he wants it to end.

He can hear the moment those lips part from his skin, the air brushing past to leave the cool impression of where his hand was kissed. It tingles like the weather’s changed at their meeting, like the fire in Keith’s chest has simmered to something more pleasant. He can’t say that he’s ever felt so warm.

The statue is the only one that moves in the next few moments. They tick past like aching heartbeats, not wanting to move forward until the point where the moment ends and the gorgeous face before him disappears from his sight. He can’t breathe or move or speak and hovers between falling and running. There’s nothing else he can do without embarrassing himself further. His face is already burning.

The golden angel hums in curiosity, releasing his hand slowly, Keith’s transfixed stare making him uncertain. He tilts his head, eyes glancing downstairs and over Keith’s hunched shoulders. There’s a twitch behind his left eye, but he says nothing, keeping to his character. He appears so concerned that the blue of his eyes seem to shimmer like water. Keith doesn’t know how to fix that, how to reassure the worry coursing across his face, so he runs.

His boots hit the tiles with a thud, guitar case jostling in his hand, barely in his grip as he sprints across the plaza. He doesn’t know where he’s running, but he’s running there fast. He can’t look back. He can’t see that look again. He finds the nearest place to hide: a small bookstore where the man behind the counter stares, surprised, at his sudden entrance.

Trying to hide his embarrassment, he shuffles in between the tall shelves, nodding at the people he passes until he finds himself in the far corner between various books on history. He wishes they held the answers Keith needs to deal with his inability to speak in the presence of a guy who stands still for a living. He has nowhere else to go, nor does he intend to go anywhere. Keith has to get a hold of himself.

Once ten minutes pass and he’s convinced he can get away safely without anyone seeing, he stalks out of the bookstore with a slump to his shoulders. He’s ridiculous. He’s got no hope of being able to sit there tomorrow and playing his guitar without staring at his hand or staring up at the guy who insists on looking back. He’s got no hope at all.

The following day in his usual spot goes exactly as he had expected. He sits down and crosses his legs, rests his guitar on his lap, and steels his gaze forward. Songs fall from his lips like he's serenading the air itself, every parting of his lips a kiss to the sound of his strumming. He wants every song to be as beautiful as the man he can't bear to look at in case he loses his voice again.

He's never found it a struggle to speak before. His words might have been coarse or improper, but they came together succinctly, getting his point across in a manner that made sense. None of his encounters with the angel had made sense. His hand still tingles like a reminder of the last one and Keith is left wondering whether he's meant to speak to that man at all. If he can't gather the courage, perhaps he is best left to singing songs about longing, about beautiful girls, about sunsets in the distance and stars in the sky.

He finds himself staring up at the sky, watching the clouds go by as coins fall into his guitar case. He barely pays the passersby attention, mind wandering to the look on the statue's face as he too had stared at the sky. His face had been so serene and peaceful, all of his worries gone as he had stood almost naked and shrouded in a golden sheet. Keith's chest aches at the thought of knowing more of that, sharing in that casual bliss.

Keith stops playing to cast his gaze over the piazza in search of the shine in the distance. The human statue still stands there as angelic as always, his eyes cast downward. The apparent solemness of his posture strikes Keith as odd, his smile gone, seeming to be stuck in contemplation. It’s only halfway through the day, and he’d seemed just as popular as ever, but something isn't quite right.

Licking his lips, Keith decides he has to know. He packs away his guitar and picks up the case, barely slipping his earnings into his pocket before he jogs his way over. He moves awkwardly, zigzagging back and forth, turning his head to try grasp why the effervescent angel could possibly be so different, so sad, so unlike himself. Perhaps Keith is making something out of nothing, but he has to know.

His guitar case hits the ground with a scuttle and a bang when he stops before the man's feet. He doesn't look up, or anywhere, frozen in place, unwilling or unable to move. No one else seems to be as concerned as he is, walking past the two of them as if nothing is happening, as if the show is just for him.

Keith takes a deep breath, eyebrows furrowed, worried he's seeing things and this is all a big misunderstanding. His hand makes its way into his pocket regardless, digging out a dollar and hovering it above the angel's vase. Still the man remains still, oblivious to Keith's presence, too lost in his own to notice anything outside it.

The coin in Keith's fingers reflects the light up into his eyes. He fiddles it over and under his fingers while he contemplates what reaction he might get this time. Perhaps it'll be another wink, or a kiss on the hand, but each coin has always produced a bigger reaction than the last. Keith wonders what might happen if he gives all of his change, if he pours all of it into the vase. The idea is too hard to resist.

Keith leans forward and drops in the first coin, biting his lip as he sees the first hint of movement in the angel's form. The man's eyes look up and then down to the vase, his golden lips parting. They both pause when their eyes meet, both of them now frozen as statues. Seconds pass before Keith can move again.

Grabbing a fistful of coins from his pocket, Keith gulps and refocuses. His hand darts out above the vase and lets go, coins falling one by one to clink at the bottom of the vase. The sound of coins perforates the thick air surrounding the two of them. Keith has no idea how many coins he just dropped into the vase, but it's his entire day's earnings, and he doesn't regret giving a cent of it.

Keith can feel his heart beating through him, his pulse one of energy, rippling through him as his body freezes once again. He can explain why he's done what he's done, but he's standing there waiting for what will come. He hopes his anticipation and hope don't appear as desperate as he feels he is, blinking in an attempt to keep himself present.

A gold blur rushes before him, barely registering until he feels a warm, wet touch against his cheek. He gasps, air rushing from his lungs, when he realises that golden lips are on his skin. The angel is kissing him. The angel moved so quickly to his cheek that he barely even realised. Now _he's_ standing as the statue while the man pulls away and looks him in the eye.

"Was that... was that too much?" he asks in a voice as sweet as Keith had pictured it. His eyes are clearer and much more blue when barely a foot away from his face, especially when they're staring deep into Keith's like that. The solemness has been replaced by concern and a hint of a smile, warm and inviting.

Keith shakes his head, somehow finding the ability to move again. "N-no..." he admits, a blush tingling in his cheeks. His face is likely red, obvious, giving away the fact he finds the handsome man leaning down exactly as he is. "It's... nice." He licks his lips and wishes he had the strength to look away, but he can't find the will to do it.

The man laughs and rests a hand on Keith's shoulder, thumb soothing over the skin. "You've been staring at me. A lot." The angel grins and squeezes affectionately at his shoulder, pursing his lips before he adds, "D’you know you could just take me on a date with all that money you've thrown my way? You only have to ask."

Keith opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He stares blankly at the concept of a date, let alone a date with _this_ man. He says the first thing that comes to his mind, not realising at first that the words have slipped from his lips: "I don't even know your name." His eyes grow wide when he hears the sound of his own voice.

"Lance. You can call me Lance," the angel answers with a laugh. The tone of his voice is like music to Keith's ears, and for a second he's convinced he will never be able to sing as lovely as the sound of that laughter. Even his name sounds pretty, golden and warm like the paint that covers his skin.

Keith lets his face test a smile. The silly worry in the back of his head says that he looks weird when he smiles, that he looks wrong, that his teeth aren't right. "Lance," he whispers, tasting the man's name and finding it sweet. "I'm Keith." He swallows around the dryness in his throat and basks in the relief of finally being able to say something.

Lance's hand brushes over Keith's shoulder, stroking up his neck and cupping his face. Keith is ready to short-circuit, but then he speaks again. "So, Keith, what was it that you so desperately wanted to ask me?" Lance's eyes dart down, lingering on Keith’s lips while his mouth curls into yet another grin. He waits with that expression, hand still resting on Keith's shoulder.

"I... uh... would you... uh..." Keith struggles for the words to ask what should be easy. Plenty of people are capable of simply asking. "Would you... like to... like to..." His breathing becomes harder, lungs struggling to obtain air to keep up with the beat of his heart and the warm flush in his face.

Lance's lips press together, parting again to sigh and laugh. "Grab a coffee sometime? Dinner? Enjoy a meal in each other's company?" The gleam of his skin seems almost blinding this close. His smile comes in a close second. "Is that what you were going to ask, pretty boy?"

Keith mouths his surprise. He can't be the pretty one when Lance is so... He can't be. He shakes his head to clear it. "Any of that? I guess... maybe without the..." He gestures over Lance's outfit and finds himself gobsmacked again by the bare chest in front of him. "Sheet?" Keith snorts a laugh and tries another smile, finding it more comfortable once Lance beams back at him.

"Nude? Aren't you forward?" Lance's grin grows wider. He winks for good measure, only animating more of the gold paint covering his skin. It all seems too good to be true, like Lance actually is a statue that came to life just to talk to Keith. He only seems to get closer.

Keith practically squeaks at the idea, and at his proximity. He shakes his head and stutters, "No, no, just a date... with clothes." He doesn't need to clarify, but he does anyway to his own embarrassment. The idea of Lance in real clothes, as himself, seems like such a foreign concept that Keith blushes at the thought of anything between them beyond the tiles of the piazza.

Lance’s grins softly this time, genuinely pleased by his answer. "A date, then," he affirms with a tone so sweet that Keith breaks into a smile himself, one that doesn't feel awkward for once. Lance's eyes seem to sparkle, light catching in the blue, mingling with the glow of hope.

"Yeah, a date," Keith agrees and rubs at his arm. He doesn't know what else to do but shrug his shoulders and smile wider. A date is a date and he has one. Anything beyond this point is golden.

**Author's Note:**

> All comments and kudos are very much appreciated. 
> 
> Come yell at me on Twitter [@particlebarrier](http://twitter.com/particlebarrier).


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